Expectations
by Yeahsureyoubetcha
Summary: He was expecting boredom and pure misery . . . she was hoping for a dream come true. What they discover, though, may be more real (and perhaps more wonderful) than either of them ever imagined. (Bit of angst, bit of humor - Team friendship, and major J/S shipping!)


**Disclaimer:** 'Stargate SG-1' and all of its characters are still just as not mine as they were the last time . . . (*sigh*)

**Note of Thanks:** I would like to give a huge shout out to NoraAnne1929 for her constant support and encouragement! Without you, this piece might still be lying around unfinished in some file on my computer. Thank you so much for keeping me focused and encouraged! :D

**Time Frame:** Season Four sometime after 'Divide and Conquer' (vague reference/spoiler for that episode), but nothing specific.

**Setting:** All SGC personnel, their families and some military brass are attending a military ball. The reason behind this celebration I leave to your imagination. Personally I thought of several possibilities, but since it was rather irrelevant to the plot, I decided not to delve too deeply into that aspect of the story.

**Genre:** Very Team centered at first, but decidedly J/S. Bit of humor, bit of angst, lots of friendship and some major shipping. Enjoy!

* * *

Colonel Jack O'Neill fidgeted with the collar of his class A uniform, working his fingers around the neck area. When he reached the knot of his regulation tie, he latched onto it passionately. After several 'helpful' yanks - and a series of mutterings regarding the idiocy of self-strangulation in the name of fashion - he released the offensive article with a grunt. Glaring down at his chest, he then launched an equally vicious attack against his jacket. The first, second and third buttons were popped in quick succession, leaving the coat to hang ajar. Unfortunately, in spite of these measures, his status of comfort improved little. As such, the urge to execute some further uniform 're-adjustment' persisted, growing stronger and more irresistible by the second. Knowing that he was already pushing the envelope of acceptability as far as his appearance was concerned, the Colonel forced himself to relax - sort of. Stuffing both hands into his pockets, he visually scanned the area for something - anything - to distract his rebellious impulses. When this exercise yielded minimal results - serving more to remind him of exactly why he'd resorted to dismantling his attire in the first place rather than to distract him - Jack heaved a sigh. Lacking anything more promising to do entertainment-wise, though, he soon determined to try again.

As before, high vaulted ceilings, well polished floors, glistening what-have-yous, and sprays of some unnamed flower met his eye at every turn. The joint was elegant he'd give them, er, it that. Disgustingly elegant. To the point of being over the top Goa'uld like - almost. The pretentious architecture wasn't so bad, but the shiny doo-hickeys and out of control plant life made him shiver. On a personal scale of 'Grating and Irritating Finery', these objects definitely topped his list . . . next to bunting. He really hated bunting.

Of course the optical tortures did not end with the room itself. A swarm of similarly bedecked, bejeweled and be-gowned people were also present. More than a hundred of them could be seen milling about the audacious space - half of whom Jack O'Neill swore he should know. At least he thought they looked familiar. In all honesty, though, between the sea of multi-colored dresses, black tuxedos and military dress blues or greens, he really couldn't tell. It was like trying to examine a picture of penguins in the desert - the image as a whole was so unnatural and disturbing that seeing, much less caring, about the details was impossible.

Earlier in the evening, Jack had been told by someone - probably General Hammond - that he should try and 'mingle' with the guests and 'have fun'. Unfortunately, if the knot of humanity now before him was any indication, 'mingling' and 'having fun' were two mutually exclusive goals. By definition, the act of mingling would require that he actually join the mob, which in turn would result in his being crushed and/or bored to death, which - to his way of thinking - certainly wouldn't be very much fun.

With this in mind, O'Neill cautiously took a rearward step as a 'welcoming' gap formed in a portion of the nearby crowd. The random thought that Nature abhors a vacuum raced through his brain and for a horrifying moment he had a vision of himself being sucked in to fill the void. Not surprisingly, therefore, when the already wide gap opened even further a second or so later, he responded by practically jumping backwards. It was then, as he assessed the limited security afforded by this action, that the battle-hardened Colonel decided upon a more effective strategy . . . retreat! In accordance with this plan, he chose a dark, secluded corner well shielded by some leafy potted plants and quietly slipped out of range.

The view from this new position was incongruous to say the least - all of the room's satin and grandeur framed in jungle fronds - but the atmosphere was calmer, not to mention safer. Jack was just congratulating himself on this last point when he heard footsteps. Granted, in a ballroom filled with people, hearing footfalls was nothing unusual, but these were special. These he had heard before - or rather he'd heard the beat of their stride before - and from the sound of things they were coming straight for him. Wincing in anticipation of having his new safe haven trespassed upon, the Colonel held his breath. _Three, two, one_ . . .

Silence.

_One_ . . .

Nothing.

_Anytime, Daniel_ . . .

"Jack?"

"Ah! So close," he muttered, eyes snapping toward the intruder. As expected, said intruder was none other than Dr. Daniel Jackson, in all of his usual ill-timed glory. "You're slowing down, Danny."

"Slowing - ?"

"Skip it."

Though his brow had already constricted into a series of horizontal question marks, the archaeologist obediently let it slide. "Oh-kay," he shrugged, hanging on the syllables. Not a minute later, though, the young man again opened his mouth. "So . . . you wanna tell me why you're hiding behind a plant?"

O'Neill glowered at his all too observant friend. "I'm not hiding."

"Uh huh. And I'm not near sighted," Jackson humphed, folding his arms in challenge. At the same time, his eyebrows arched upward and then fell into a tight knit 'V'. "So . . ."

"What?"

Jackson nodded at this defensive growl. Leaning onto the wall with one shoulder, he then exhaled slow and steady. "Well, if it makes you feel any better," he murmured, eyes diverted. "This isn't exactly my cup of tea either."

Throwing a sidelong glance in the archaeologist's direction, Jack almost scowled. So much for evading, deflecting or in some way avoiding that topic. Now not only was he stuck with the topic, but with a barrel full of sympathetic understanding and an open confession from a like-minded rebel to boot. He supposed he should have known better than to expect Daniel, of all people, to take a hint.

Engrossing himself in the grain of the wooden floor, O'Neill deliberated how to respond. He could just surrender, he supposed, and say something nice. Something fitting. Something appropriate. Scrolling through a mental list of seldom used polite conversation fillers, he considered each option carefully.

"Coffee," he mumbled at length. It wasn't on his list, but it was the best he could do.

"Coffee," Daniel repeated doubtfully.

"Yeah, coffee. As in that's what this isn't your cup of - as opposed tea." Upset by how ridiculous and complicated this statement sounded, O'Neill tried to clarify. "I mean, since when do you drink tea?"

"Oh . . . right. What was I thinking?" Daniel floundered, his eyes zigzagging toward the ceiling. He was still examining this plane for some kind of insight into the inner workings of Jack's brain, when the latter interrupted.

"Besides, I thought you went in for shindigs like this. The whole meet and greet, make nice, smile blandly sort of thing _is _sort of what you do."

"True," Jackson admitted indifferently. "But, I don't know . . . somehow this is different. I mean we're not exactly accomplishing anything for the furtherance of peace and freedom in the galaxy."

"Kinda takes all the fun out of it for you, eh?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

An empty pause followed this affirmation, neither man really knowing what to say next. For Daniel's part, he chose to fill the lull by studying a wayward plant leaf. He was just admiring the healthy size of its stem when he was struck by a thought. Every facial line he possessed fell into a perplexed frown and he gave O'Neill a hard stare.

"I drink tea."

With a blank look, Jack tore his attention from the floor and mulled over this point. Incredulously, he then matched his friend's stare. "When you're sick."

"Well, yeah, but -"

Before the archaeologist could finish this rebuttal, a drumroll reverberated through the hall. An announcer's voice followed, declaring that the 'dance' part of the ball was about to begin. Attendees were asked to clear the floor and some military muckety-muck along with some lady V.I.P. were introduced to officially open the affair. Agreeably, the throng started to disperse, drifting away from the center floor to congregate around the room's perimeter.

Without consulting one other, Jack and Daniel both reacted to this development by moving a bit further into the corner. Granted, they were already well protected by the thick shrubs, but it couldn't hurt to be cautious . . . could it? At least not as far as a certain Colonel and his archaeologist were concerned. The unanimity of their thoughts and actions - though hardly a surprise to either of them - did cause the men to exchange peripheral stares. Neither spoke, but somehow a jointly beneficial I-won't-mention-it-if-you-don't kind of agreement was reached. Sealing this pact with a blink, the two friends then purposed to look away.

Their level of comfort was just beginning to return, when a deep, familiar voice cut through the shrubbery.

"O'Neill, Daniel Jackson - are you hiding behind this foliage for a purpose?"

Brown eyes locked onto blue as a moment of mutual panic and indignation was shared. Then, in one accord, the pair turned to answer the Jaffa. "We're not hiding."

This tandem remark sparked another round of leery side glances between the speakers along with a particularly pointed eyebrow lift from Teal'c.

"I have seldom doubted your word, O'Neill, or yours Daniel Jackson. In this instance, however, I find your assertion to be most improbable."

"Now that hurts," the Colonel grumbled. "You think we're lying?"

"Indeed."

Aggravated by his friend's usual, unruffled bluntness Jack straightened himself with a 'humph'. Giving Daniel a shove, he then jerked his head toward the bustling room. This cue was rewarded by a silent, mouthed 'ow' from his victim, to which he responded with another more insistent head jerk.

Pulling a disgruntled face, the archaeologist at last obeyed, leaving the safety of the bushes. Once in the clear, he aligned himself with Teal'c, set his feet a solid eighteen inches apart and interwove his arms.

O'Neill followed soon after, falling in close to Daniel's right. The posture he assumed was only slightly less hostile than his friend, but he did manage to plaster an almost nice expression on his face. "Smile, Danny," he ordered through a stiff smirk. "People will think you aren't having a good time."

In reaction to this advice, Daniel's eyes swiveled onto the Colonel, disbelief and exasperation evident in their 'tone'. A similar, though somewhat more veiled response, came from Teal'c as well and Jack started to squirm.

"What?" he demanded.

Two mouths paused mid-challenge at this remark, their progress suddenly stifled by another staccato drum beat. At this second prompt, a fresh tide of personnel migrated from the center floor toward the wall, forcing those already gathered there to fallback even further. This time around, several waves also directed themselves toward O'Neill's relatively empty corner; a strategy that certain parties - who shall remain nameless - found to be most disturbing.

The invasion was just reaching its peak when the hall's overhead lights began to dim. There was another hurrah from the percussion section and yet another spiel from the announcer. Bulbs casting pinkish, blue-purple hues were engaged while the remaining 'normal' light was reduced to nothing more than an ambient, candle-like glow. The muckety-muck and the V.I.P. were given a single spotlight as they assumed their positions on the floor and, within moments, the music started to play. Once an appropriate interval of time had elapsed, other couples also moved onto the floor, folding out from the walls in rhythmic patterns.

Much to the Colonel's chagrin, those crowding his nook of the world were among the last to ease back into the festivities. For whatever reason, they seemed to prefer loitering about and irritating him as opposed to dancing. Honestly, of course, he knew their motives were no where near that personal or diabolic, but he felt hostile toward them anyway.

When the last set of lingerers finally one-two-three'd themselves away from his immediate vicinity, Jack filled his cheeks with air. A puff of relief followed soon after and his once squared shoulders collapsed.

"Are you in need of oxygen, O'Neill?"

For the second time that night, Jack found himself throwing an unfriendly glare onto one of his teammates. The perceptive, eyebrow-ish look he received in return made his scowl soften ever so slightly - a side effect he often experienced when faced with the Teal'c 'I'm concerned' stare - but overall his frowny appearance remained. "No, T. I don't need any -"

A bright light slicing through the darkened room, prematurely ended the Colonel's sentence. His body tensed into mild-alert-mode and he wondered what could have caused the disruptive event. Flaming the first spark of interest he'd felt all evening, Jack began tracing the irreverent beam with his eyes. Its source, he learned, was an open access door near the rear of the hall and its purpose, apparently - or rather unfortunately, depending on your perspective - was to allow more personnel into the room.

With waning interest, O'Neill watched the stream of silhouettes passing through the doorway. The more time passed and the longer the parade grew, however, the more his interest faltered. In fact, it plummeted straight through the floor. After all, if there was one thing this room did not need, it was more people!

Countless Jaffa warriors arrayed for battle he could handle. An ever increasing number of Replicators searching for their next meal, no problem. But this? This was beyond his power of endurance.

Feeling an irresistible urge to scream suddenly whelm inside him, O'Neill decided the time was ripe for another retreat. Teal'c would give him the eyebrow and Daniel would execute his best 'Ah, Jack?' face, but the Colonel didn't care. Not anymore. Besides, since when was it a crime to take cover when one's life, or in this case sanity, was at stake? A true military mind might even say such a move on his part would be prudent. Well advised. Tactically sound.

Doing a mental eye roll at the idiocy of his own logic, the Colonel cleared his throat and rubbed self-consciously at the nape of his neck. Mapping out as succinct a route as possible, he then prepared himself for the mad, chicken-hearted dash back to safety. His legs were just on the verge of responding, when something about the still illumined entrance caught his eye. A deafening silence pounded in his ears and the edges of his world blurred into darkness - leaving one figure alone in clear focus. It was only a shadow, but the familiar poise, grace and hint of independence it possessed was unmistakable.

A dangerously well-preserved memory flashed through Jack's mind and for a moment he was in another time, another place, seeing the same perfect shadow. Back then, of course, said shadow had seemed far less perfect. Not because of its shape, but because of what it represented: A troublesome, babbling scientist in need of babysitting.

A bother. A nuisance. A pest.

As he remembered, this snap judgement had lasted all of around three seconds. At that all important juncture one Samantha 'Sam' Carter had emerged from the shadows, given him a smart salute, summarized her job qualifications in fifty words or less, recited her service record in twenty, and promptly challenged him to an arm wrestling match. Needless to say this development had tweaked his expectations - just a little. Perhaps there was more to this scientist slash theoretical astro-whatever than he'd first imagined . . .

With a faint smile, Jack laughed at the memory of this ridiculous thought. Never in the history of mankind had such a monumental miscalculation been reached. At least not as far as he was concerned. Daniel would probably vote for some extinct nomadic culture and their underestimation of the sandstorm or something, but to his way of thinking it just didn't compare.

The thudding beat within O'Neill's mind that had sheltered him from the din of his surroundings, suddenly began to dissipate. An external, repetitive sound pulled at his consciousness, effectively forcing him to re-expand his awareness. At first, he could discern nothing aside from a sea of jumbled syllables, but then . . .

". . . Jack? Hello?"

"I believe he has ceased inhaling, Daniel Jackson."

"No, I don't think -"

"We must act now."

"A-act? But - ah! No, Teal'c wait! Jack lo-!"

Before the Colonel could process these snippets of information, a pair of waving hands materialized in front of his face and a heavy something struck the middle of his back. Air left his lungs in a whoosh and momentum from the blow carried his upper body dangerously close to the frantic hands. Recovering himself in the nick of time, Jack sucked in gulp of oxygen.

" . . . Look out," Daniel finished belatedly, a wince on his face.

"Dan-!"

"Jack!" Thrusting both arms forward in a placating gesture, the archaeologist took a rearward step. With one finger, he then waggled a silent accusation at something or someone behind the Colonel.

Pursing his lips, Jack turned on the unnamed culprit. "Teal'c!?" he blustered, landing the Jaffa in his sights. "Teal'c . . ." Constricting his fingers in a claw like fashion, he reached toward his friend's throat. Just shy of the appointed target, though, he relaxed, allowing his digits to fall onto the alien's shoulders. His facial features ran through a range of contortions - reflecting everything from irritation to exasperation to confusion - before at last settling into a hapless look of defeat. "Teal'c . . . Argh!"

T angled his head, clearly baffled by this behavior, and stared down at his friend. "Are you still experiencing respiratory difficulty, O'Neill?"

"No!" Jack answered in a rush. "No." With a reassuring pat and another defeated grumble, he then released his hold on the Jaffa. "No. Your palm impaling my back did wonders for that, thank you."

At this, Daniel tucked one arm across his midriff, using it as a prop for his opposite elbow, and tried not to laugh. The fingers of his upraised hand wrapped securely about his mouth and he squinted towards the lower regions of the middle distance.

Screwing his features into an impressive glower, the Colonel fired a warning look in Jackson's direction. "So help me, Daniel, if you say one word . . ." Almost immediately the other man's mouth emerged from behind its shield and parted as though about to speak. "Att!"

"But Jack, I -"

"Att! Daniel . . ."

"But -" A fierce index finger accompanied by a powerful 'Not!' soon squashed this protest and Daniel slumped his shoulders dejectedly.

Teal'c, who had observed this exchange in stoic silence, now turned to the Colonel. His face was grave and he seemed intent upon vindicating his own actions as well as those of the archaeologist. "Your appearance was most disconcerting, O'Neill."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud! I was _thinking_. Okay?"

Daniel's head lifted, a quizzical look of surprise decorating his face. "R-really?"

"What?" Jack snapped. Even though he personally enjoyed knocking his own intelligence and propagating the idea that he was a bit lacking in the brain department, he always made a point of being irritated when Jackson did the same. As such, a stinging lecture regarding the evils of mocking one's Team leader began to formulate itself in his brain. Warming to the topic instantly, he tilted his head, lifted a finger, opened his mouth, and . . .

"Oh look! It's Sam. Hi, Sam."

Thrown off by this tumbling interjection, O'Neill listened helplessly as the word on his tongue melted into a single elongated vowel. With mouth still hanging ajar, he then trailed a glance back and over his shoulder - the trajectory of Daniel's optics acting as his guide. "Carter!"

Grinning at her Commander's apparent enthusiasm, the Major offered a stiff wave. "Guys, Sir. Am I interrupting anything?" Cries of 'yes', 'no' and 'I am uncertain' came in answer to this question and she started to laugh. It came out as more of a suppressed chuckle, but the way she lowered her eyes and began fiddling with the hem of her uniform spoke volumes.

As for the conflicting trio, their reaction was a bit more contained - a frozen moment of realization, a cocked eyebrow, an odd expression or two - and then all was forgotten.

Forcing his attention forward and smiling brightly, Daniel offered a bit of reassurance. "You didn't interrupt anything, Sam. We were just . . . talking."

"Ah, yes. Talking. My favorite thing."

At this sarcastic, yet inexplicably endearing remark, Carter's lips pulled into another grin. Her gaze wound upward and she absently noted how adorable the Colonel appeared at that moment. A tuft of hair was standing like an unruly fan along his crown, mischief was glinting in his eyes and the barest of smirks played about his mouth. Contrasting beams of colored light roamed over his features, emphasizing the high cheek bones, well defined lower lip and deep set eyes. Soon, other adjectives such as 'handsome' and 'stunning' began adding themselves to her original diagnosis of 'adorable' and Sam felt her heart start to pound.

Swallowing against her own treacherous thoughts, Carter strove to distract herself. Bouncing onto her toes in a perfect - albeit unintentional - imitation of the Colonel, she forced a neutral smile. "So . . . talking, eh, Sir? What about?"

"Plants," Jack answered hastily. Drawing in a deep breath and holding it for a beat, he then circled a hand outward in a vague gesture. "Plants and other . . . stuff."

Considering this tactfully deceptive yet truthful answer, Teal'c straightened his already rigid posture. "Indeed."

How a single word of agreement could sound so much like an indictment, was more than O'Neill could comprehend. Thankfully, he was saved from having to explain this remark - and the coughing fit it ignited in his archaeologist - by the night's first dance coming to an end. Applause rose to mark the event and its volume was happily more than enough to claim the bystanders' attention.

With the absence of music, the throng's once synchronous order quickly deteriorated into haphazard action. Holding to no particular pattern, they milled about, thanking old partners, finding new ones and making a hundred little adjustments to their attire. Then, slowly but surely, the crowd fell still as fresh notes of music began to fill the air. The latest song was soft, almost hypnotic in tone and seemed to captivate its audience immediately. As before, the dancers again became one, swaying in time to the rhythm . . . their bodies lending an almost tangible form to the entrancing melody.

A profound sense of longing gripped Sam as she scanned the scene before her. It was illogical. Childishly romantic. Even dangerous . . . but she wanted to dance. _With_ _him_.

Just once.

Setting her chin forward, Carter blinked - hard. He was her Commanding Officer and there were boundaries. She couldn't have her dance . . . not even one.

"Sam, you okay?"

Predictably, this question came from Daniel. It took the Major a split second to process his words, but as they registered she turned and gave him a thin smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Jackson circled his arms about himself, the stance somehow serving as both a self-hug and an unspoken challenge. His eyes peering over the rim of their glasses, added heavily to this latter impression.

With a nervous shrug, Carter shifted her gaze back to the center floor and its occupants. The sight of so many couples lost in each other's arms, revived the twinge of yearning she had felt earlier. Her breath stammered for a brief moment, but finally she spoke. "It's beautiful isn't it?" Her tone, though wistful, remained steady.

". . . Umhmmnn."

Even without looking, Sam knew exactly who was responsible for this indecisive grumble. Only her Colonel could be so delightfully inarticulate. As she pivoted around to see his face, Carter pulled her lips into their largest grin - the one reserved especially for him - and offered an indulgent nod. "Not exactly your thing, Sir?"

Jack seesawed his shoulders, eyes roaming over the crowd. An instant later, the wandering gaze locked onto Sam with a subtle yet all consuming intensity. "Depends on how you define 'beautiful'."

In the wake of this murmured response, time seemed to hang suspended. A blush crept onto Carter's cheeks and she swore the galaxy could hear the echo of her quickened pulse. Not long after this initial reaction, however, her emotions were thrown into turmoil by a sudden sense of insecurity. Clearly his words - though well veiled - had been meant for her and somehow this knowledge terrified her. What could she possibly say in return? Beyond that, how could she possibly consider accepting such a compliment . . . yet, on the other hand, how could she reject it?

Fear that the Colonel might perceive this inner conflict, drove Sam to break eye contact. Initially, her eyelids stuttered, as though unwilling to obey, but at last they fell closed. A muffled 'ahem' answered this action, along with the uncomfortable shuffling of feet and she soon sensed the loss of his gaze. He rambled something under his breath; the words were unintelligible, but somehow they still managed to shatter the connection between them. Risking a glance upward, Sam was both relieved and saddened to find the impassive face of Colonel Jack O'Neill waiting for her. All trace of emotion seemed to have vanished, leaving only professional friendship and respect in its place.

Hoping to alleviate some of the lingering tension between his friends, Daniel cleared his throat. "So . . .Teal'c? What do you think of your first military ball?"

"I find it to be a most educational experience, Daniel Jackson."

"Really?" the archaeologist replied, his voice brimming with fascination.

"Indeed. The combination of stringent military protocol, superfluous ornamentation and culinary decadence provide a most intriguing contrast to the other cultural activities I have witnessed here on your planet."

"Yes," Jack murmured with feigned solemnity. "I'm all a flutter myself." Throwing a doubtful look in the Jaffa's direction, he then shuddered.

"I am particularly interested in your Earth form of dancing," Teal'c continued unfazed. "It is very dissimilar to that of my own people."

"Oh yeah?"

Ignoring this burst of enthusiasm from Danny, Jack leaned toward his Major in a confidential manner. "I didn't know Jaffa danced."

A giggle bubbled into Carter's throat at this whispered confession and she almost laughed out loud. In fact, had it not been for quick reflexes and the well practiced art of cheek biting she would have.

"Actually," Jackson rushed, seemingly unaware of the Major's giggles. "Dancing is one of the earliest and most universally recognized aspects of civilizations predating even the -"

"Daniel!" Slicing a hand across his own throat by way of illustration, the Colonel gave his lecturer a daunting look.

"Right," Daniel nodded, an obedient index finger shooting into the air. "Why don't I shut up?" Offering these last words as though they were the ultimate solution to all the world's problem, he clamped his lips into a wry smile.

For whatever reason, a long silence followed this exchange. The mood was amicable, not strained or awkward, just quiet. Small grins were traded at regular intervals, along with random snorts of laughter, as some of the evening's banter was silently recalled and mutually enjoyed. The more time progressed, though, the more a subtle aura of tension again began to build between the Colonel and his Major. Apparently other memories, much deeper and more emotional ones than those of the night's conversation, were preying on their thoughts.

Perceiving this palpable shift in the atmosphere, Teal'c sighed inwardly - not out of irritation, but sorrow. After all, he had been in _that_ room. He above all others, knew how completely O'Neill cared for Major Carter - and she for him. The Air Force, were it privy to their feelings, would declare such love an offense; a punishable matter and one of which they should be ashamed.

But the Air Force had not seen them through his eyes . . .

"Daniel Jackson?" the Jaffa boomed, his head suddenly inclined in thought. "I believe I should enjoy learning the basics of your Earth form of dance. Would you be willing to assist me?"

The archaeologist's mouth dropped into an 'O' shaped gape and his eyes seemed to bulge behind their lenses. "Er, um well . . ."

T's optical focus narrowed painfully at this hesitation, the dark orbs digging deep into their target. "Is there a problem, Daniel Jackson?"

"Oh, no it's just . . ."

"Do you not think dancing a worthwhile activity?" Then, in a more pointed tone, the Jaffa continued. "For us all."

Daniel mouthed this last phrase over to himself - the proverbial light bulb practically springing to life above his head. "Oh, right! What a terrific idea! Yes, yes of course, ah . . . h-h-how about we all dance? Jack, Sam?" he gestured a hand from his friends to the center floor, before turning back to T with a smile of infinite pride. "C'mon, Teal'c!"

Pupils widening to saucer like proportions, Sam sharpened her eyes on the retreating backs of her teammates. Had they really just done what she thought they'd done? Had they really just given her - _them_ - an opening . . . an innocent chance to venture into beautiful yet forbidden territory?

"Want to?"

The flat sound of O'Neill's words startled Sam from her reverie. A hint of disappointment threatened to seize her at the detached almost flippant tone of his voice - the same careless tone one might associate with memorable quotes like 'more pizza?' or 'have a nice day'. Of course the Colonel, she reminded herself, seldom used this inflection in such a one dimensional way. To him it was simply an emotional cushion; a safeguard against revealing how truly invested he was in any particular situation. It manufactured a feeling of distance between him and his listener . . . even when his heart was anything but distant.

Comforting herself with this thought, Carter shook the twinge of disappointment and smiled. "Sure, Sir."

The reserved expression of panic Jack had adopted during his Second's moment of deliberation vanished. He bobbed his head by way of affirmation and offered a weak, lopsided smirk. In an effort to repair the damage wrought by earlier adjustments, he then worked a fidgeting hand over his uniform. Buttons were refastened, pleats smoothed and the dreaded tie pushed back into place. Once he was marginally satisfied with these improvements, O'Neill extended a hand. Dully, he considered the need to say something. Cliches such as 'ladies first', 'after you', 'shall we' or the ever original 'mush' leapt to mind, but his vocal chords refused to cooperate. Invisible fingers flexed about his throat, constricting his airway and he found himself struggling to even breathe.

Where was T when he needed him? The traitor . . .

Taking her wordless cue, Sam unclasped her hands - which she had unconsciously intertwined - and walked towards the floor. Her mind felt hazy and her legs seemed to be operating on autopilot. The reality, or rather insanity, of what she was about to do refused to register - despite the fact that every nerve of her body seemed to be firing in double time. This nervous energy manifested itself in her eyes, the blue orbs bouncing restlessly from right to left and back again. During one of these optical laps, she caught a short glimpse of Daniel guiding Teal'c through the basics of a waltz. It didn't seem to be going very well, but then waltzing to the rhythm of a slow dance rarely did.

Collecting herself, Carter inhaled a steady breath and came to a halt. Barely within the fluid crowd's outer perimeter, she stood stiff and unmoving, awaiting the arrival of her partner. A soft brush of air soon signaled his approach and her eyes darted self-consciously to the floor. The warmth of O'Neill's presence grew stronger as he circled forward, assuming an expectant position before her. Without thinking, Sam lifted her arms, the right one climbing slightly higher than the left, and again waited. Her visual line of focus rose, abandoning the floor in favor of the Colonel's lapels and a gentle pressure came to rest on her waist. There were no bolts of lightening, no tingles, just the steady touch of his hand.

As before, disappointment again clouded Samantha's heart. Had he so distanced himself from her? Or had she misread his attentions so completely?

Long, slender fingers wrapping themselves around her opposite hand, quickly stemmed the flow of these thoughts. Though the physical reaction to this touch was still no different than the first, Carter forced herself not to dwell. She was in his arms and that was what mattered. Maybe there hadn't been any sparks, searing flames of passion or bursts of desire, but did there have to be? Such sensations were meant only for fairy tales . . . and life was not a fairy tale.

Settling herself in this knowledge, Sam reached for the Colonel's shoulder. The cool metal of his insignia chilled her palm while her fingers spoke to the familiar texture of his uniform . . . it felt just like her own.

An almost imperceptible tug and push from her partner, caused the Major to shift her weight. A moment later the pressure released, its absence guiding her back just as imperceptibly in the opposite direction. In this manner, the pair began to sway. He lead, she followed, yet somehow their motions seemed perfectly simultaneous.

The Colonel laid out a slow, sauntering pattern that vaguely resembled a circle. His hold on Sam's waist and hand never varied - except when giving direction - and she drew confidence from his steady carriage. As the seconds ticked by, she gradually summoned enough courage to raise her eyes from their resting place. They followed the length of his tie, reached the base of his neck and paused. She watched his adam's apple dip slightly as he swallowed and was again assaulted by a wave of doubt.

Her Commander's face - the very object of her upward journey - was a mere fraction of a gaze away, but what awaited her there? Would it be an impenetrable, impersonal wall? Or would it be something else? Something that was everything she wanted, yet all she couldn't have . . . or all she was afraid to accept.

Either way, Sam knew she had to look. She had to gaze into his eyes. Now. In this moment.

Just once.

A shallow breath passed through her lips and, like her partner, she swallowed. Latching onto a slim thread of determination, she then lifted her face to meet his. As their eyes touched, something indefinable lanced through her. All sound faded into obscurity and the semi-darkness consumed all but them into shadow. The logical, orderly reality of all she thought she understood crumbled under his gaze and she felt her world rock to its very core. Every doubt, every inhibition, every fear, every barrier she had ever held where they were concerned, instantly melted away . . . leaving nothing but a raw, simple truth behind: He loved her.

Love itself seemed to be coursing through his eyes. Everything his actions had so far failed to convey was now clearly discernible within his stare. It touched her, caressed her, held her . . . all in a single, unfaltering look. It attributed her with more beauty than she ever hoped to possess and consumed her more completely than she had ever dreamed. Though silent, its presence called to her, whispering words filled with more love than she could possibly fathom. Love in its purest, simplest and most perfect form. Love that enveloped all of her being yet demanded nothing in return. Nothing, save perhaps the pleasure of staring into her eyes; and through her eyes, her soul.

Desperately, Sam gulped. For the first time in months, everything made sense. _They_ made sense. Here, now, in front of General Hammond and half of the Pentagon, she was his - and nothing had ever felt so right.

Running her tongue over the inside of her mouth, Sam sought to replenish the sudden dryness she detected there. Her lips rolled inward, also seeking moisture, and for an instant her eyes left his. They flicked downward to his lips then back up again.

All he had to do was ask . . .

Even as this thought - and all of the wondrous consequences it might entail - glanced through her mind, Sam felt herself begin to retreat. A heavy warmth pounded into her cheeks, air choked in her lungs and the hyper thrumming of her heart ground to a halt.

What was she thinking? She was not his for the asking; and he was not hers. Not now. They had a job to do. An important job that was bigger than them - bigger than _this_ - and it had to come first. It had to.

Ripping her eyes away from his, Sam briefly studied the floor. His intoxicating gaze still held her captive, despite the broken visual contact, and its steadiness served to both accentuate and confuse her emotions. Under its influence, equally strong feelings of guilt, loss and regret began to churn within her. The weight of responsibility pressed hard upon her, demanding that she push him away - yet the very thought of losing him was practically unbearable. What should she do? What _could_ she do?

Of their own volition, familiar strains of selfless logic again began rehearsing themselves over and over in her brain. Painfully, she was reminded of the oaths they had both sworn to protect their country - their planet - from all who would seek to destroy it; and of their pledge to fulfill that promise above all else, no matter what the cost.

No matter what the personal sacrifice . . .

These thoughts did little to comfort Sam, but the truth of their council was undeniable. There was no choice before her - no decision to make. When it came to them, everything had already been decided . . . a long time ago.

Resignedly, she sought his face. Her voice seemed to have abandoned her, but perhaps like the Colonel, she wouldn't have to speak. Perhaps all that needed to be said, could again be heard and understood in silence.

As their gazes met, Jack smiled ruefully. He had known, even before receiving her eyes, that something had changed. His Major had started thinking again. Not that she had ever truly stopped, of course, but now her thoughts were of the more rational, duty-bound variety. He could tell. A subtle tightness had come to her fingers as well as to the muscles about her waist - both sure signs that the gigantic Carter brain was at work.

Now, as he stared into her eyes, Jack perceived just how great a shift had taken place. Words were unnecessary - the message carried within the darkened hue of her gaze said it all. She was pleading with him to understand; to remember the truth of who they were and all they stood for. She was asking him to return to that place of denial; that place where he was simply her Commander and she was his subordinate. Where the good of many took priority over the good of a few.

But the Colonel didn't want to think about that place - and he certainly didn't want to go there. Not yet. He wanted to hold onto her . . . just a little bit longer.

Fixedly, and with stubbornness streaking across his every feature, O'Neill held his ground. A feminine voice muttering 'Sir' came to mind and he smirked at the imaginary reproach. He was being incorrigible, he knew - not to mention impractical - but he couldn't help himself. As this show of rebellion continued, he peripherally noticed a small smile tugging at the corners of Carter's mouth. That meant she was indulging him. Patiently. Happily. The very thought made him want to grin.

A musical crescendo rose to punctuate this moment - its arrival somehow managing to first electrify and then shatter Jack's intimate concentration. It was as though the evocative melody had carried him high on a blissful wave only to send him crashing headlong against the shore of reality an instant later. Awareness of the surrounding crowd returned to him in a rush, sending his emotions running for cover. Internal walls slammed back into place and the formerly immovable eyes began to ricochet about the room. His beloved corner, a random chandelier, assorted plant life, and numerous dancing couples all flew by in a blur, until . . .

The chocolate brown orbs froze. Their owner's jaw shifted downward, a smile playing about the edges of his mouth. A snort of giggles - Carter giggles - soon announced that his partner had also seen the sight and Jack started to grin. For there, a short distance away, were their teammates . . .

"I believe your mathematical calculations concerning this activity are incorrect, Daniel Jackson." As he spoke, Teal'c stepped sideways, back, forward and to the side again in a precise square. The aforementioned Daniel Jackson, he held firmly at arms length - an iron Jaffa grip encircling each of the younger man's biceps.

"What makes you say that, Teal'c?" the Doctor wondered, eyes trained on their feet, his face a mass of concentration.

"It would appear that to properly execute a square pattern, one requires a total of four beats. Three alone is insufficient."

"Well, you don't actually have to complete the full square on three," Jackson clarified. "You just go as far as you can and then start over again at one."

The perpetually moving Jaffa frowned. His neck craned hard to one side and his eyes glazed in thought. "For what purpose?"

Daniel bit out a laugh. "I have no idea. Has something to do with rhythm, I think."

"Are our current movements not sufficiently rhythmic, Daniel Jackson?"

"Well, yes and no," the archaeologist replied, still absorbed in watching their feet. "_We_ seem to be in rhythm, but we're not exactly _with_ the music."

"Do you believe reverting to a cyclical count of three will remedy this disparity?"

"Um, yeah actually . . . ha, no I don't think so. I've been giving it some thought, and, uh . . . well rocks are more my thing so I could be wrong, but . . . well after listening to it . . . I don't think this song is even in three quarter time, anyway."

At this admission, T ceased moving. Disbelief and astonishment lay hidden along the impassive lines of his face and he stared blankly at his teacher.

This sudden interruption of momentum made Daniel stumble. His legs tangled in an ungainly fashion and his glasses bounced out of place. From behind these skewed and imbalanced lenses, one very wide-eyed archaeologist peered at the Jaffa.

"Um, Teal'c? You alright?"

Back on the dance floor, Jack and Sam rapidly lost themselves in laughter. His quiet chuckling mingled with her subdued, girlish peals and, for awhile, everything else was forgotten. When the real world once again touched them, it was to announce the arrival of a musical finale. The instruments were winding through the closing stanzas, building in volume, and then, before they knew it, the song came to an end.

The dance was over.

Recapturing each other's eyes, the Colonel and his Major shared a parting glance. He nodded to her, she smiled at him. Their internal shields remained safely in tact, yet somehow, even through the barriers, they managed to reach one another. The connection was soft, understated . . . but it was there.

It would always be there . . .

Activity around the officers began to increase as those on the floor parted company. Thanks were exchanged in low voices, followed by the louder more insistent hum of normal conversation.

Through it all, O'Neill and Carter remained motionless - hands still clasped, eyes still locked. Meaningful seconds came and went . . . then, as one, they separated.

"So . . ."

Carter smiled at this hesitant preamble. She opened her hands expectantly and then drew them back together, interlacing her fingers. "So . . ."

"Yeah . . ." Jack's hand raked along his scalp, setting spikes of his gray hair on end. The untidy locks stood erect for a time, but eventually they started to bend or rather droop back into place. At some point during this transformation, the Colonel offered a quick, easy smile and began to speak. "So I was thinking . . . maybe we should go help T, huh? Rescue him from the Archaeological School of Dance?"

There was a short burst of giggles at this suggestion and Sam tucked her head. "Yes, Sir. Though I think it only fair to warn you, I probably won't be of much help. Dancing isn't one of my strong points."

An affectionate smirk warmed the Colonel's face, his gaze focused wholly on her. "Coulda' fooled me."

"Well, thank you, Sir," Carter acknowledged, a flush of pink invading her cheeks. "I had a good partner."

"Oh, yeah?" O'Neill bounced brightly. His chest then expanded with pride and a hopeful waggle rocked his eyebrows. "So . . . does that mean next time we have a shindig like this, you'll save me a dance?"

Sam took a step toward her other teammates and threw a grin as well as a barely perceptible wink over her shoulder. "Yeahsureyoubetcha . . . Sir."

THE END

* * *

**Postscript from the Author:**

Almost nine years ago I met my 'Jack'. He opened a door for me . . . I challenged him to an arm wrestling match. Over time, this friendly beginning developed into a warm, comfortable, flirty kind of friendship. Life has carried us in many different directions, often separating us for months at a time, but in the end we always seem to come back to each other. We've never officially begun a 'relationship'. There are no frat regs in our way, but personal insecurities and other more concrete aspects of our lives have kept us apart. We've never kissed or even held hands, but thanks to a pair of match-making friends we have danced together - just once. Afterwards, I tried to write down how I felt during that dance, but I just couldn't find the words.

Enter the wonderful world of fanfiction. I know it sounds weird - or maybe pathetic - but writing this for Sam and Jack allowed me to find the words I couldn't before. At least I hope it did. I've never adapted such a personal experience into the form of fanfiction before and the process has taken almost four months to complete. I hope the result feels 'real' and not forced or too sappy. Trying to bring such an abstract 'thing' into a tangible, readable form was tricky for me - especially with it coming so close to home - and I'm not at all sure I found the proper balance. Please let me know what you think. Who knows, maybe someday I'll actually get up enough nerve to show this to my 'Jack' . . .

Or not. :)

Take care and thank you so much for reading!  
~ Yeahsureyoubetcha


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